Why don't you want to do what you know you should do? The reason you don't is that you are in conflict with yourself.
-Tom Hopkins

A). Despite the many denials and shoot-downs from teens, all of us are locked in an internal conflict. I know I myself am in one. I have used this as an idea indirectly in many of my writing pieces. I love stories about mythical and magical worlds, but also about troubled teens leading the sort of lives I feel like I should lead because there's so many people who can't take the difficulties. I feel that I could somewhat handle them better, having an objective outlook on many things.
B). The conflict is between the main character and herself. So Woman vs. Herself. All she had wanted was a simple life and to have simple happiness. Until she finds that her mother is terminally ill, she starts going inward and focusing only on material things so as to not feel her pain to the fullest extent.
I). Sharing Electrons, by Rhiannon Conley
II). Woman vs. Herself
III). It turns the typical story of a guy trying to get a girl into a complicated and intricate idea, showing how deeply she feels her emotions and how she fears that they will interfere with her life, so she take great pains to hide it and numb herself from it.
IV). "When Tommy looked at her, tears were streamingfrom her eyes...He didn't know what to do because he had never seen Beth cry before. He watched her as she sniffled from under her scarf and stared out at the empty streets.
"She's dead," she whimpered.
Tommy put his arms around Beth and kissed her cold, wind-burned cheeks and she cried harder...Tommy usherd Beth into his truck and they went to her house. He held her hand tight and led her to her room. She fell into bed without taking off her snowy wet boots..."Tommy, please stay," she whispered.

2).
A). Sharing Electrons, by Rhiannon Conley
B). It's traditonal. It starts with Beth being the usual type of girl you could expect, but then things get worse when her mother is diagnosed with a brain tumor. Beth stops caring about her feelings and what she used to want and dream of, becuase she feels that it's all being taken away from her. She starts focusing on fashins and how to make herself more alluring. It becomes her obsession. Tommy eventually sees through her shield and begins to love the girl he knows is there, but can't see plainly. She finally realizes that she can't be the type of person she's trying to impersonate.
C). "That was how Beth had been operating since she moved to North Dakota. Dealing with her problems by running from them and toward the glossy pages of of fashion magazines...Before she moved to the north, she imagined ice-skating with a boy who would have soft kisses and Converse."

Publication

The piece that I'm bringing to publication is the story about a drug-torn family. As of yet it is untitled. I have completed it, but I'm still making minor corrections to it, such as punctuation and grammar.

Sting Lyrics

Young teacher, the subject,
Of schoolgirl fantasy.
She wants him, so badly,
Knows what she wants to be.
Inside her, there's longing,
This girls an open page.
Book marking, she's so close now!
This girl is half his age.

Don't stand, don't stand so,
Don't stand so close to me.
Don't stand, don't stand so,
Don't stand so close to me.

Her friends are so jealous,
You know how bad girls get.
Sometimes, it's not so easy,
To be the teachers pet.
Temptation, frustration,
So bad it makes him cry.
Wet bus stop, she's waiting,
His car is warm and dry.

Don't stand, don't stand so,
Don't stand so close to me.
Don't stand, don't stand so,
Don't stand so close to me.

Loose talk in the classroom,
To hurt they try and try.
Strong words in the staff room,
The accusations fly.
It's no use, he sees her.
He starts to shake and cough.
Just like the old man in,
That book by Nabakov.

Don't stand, don't stand so,
Don't stand so close to me.
Don't stand, don't stand so,
Don't stand so close to me.

Don't stand, don't stand so,
Don't stand so close to me.
Don't stand, don't stand so,
Don't stand so close to me.
Don't stand, don't stand so,
Don't stand so close to me.
Don't stand, don't stand so,
Don't stand so close to me.
Don't stand, don't stand so,
Don't stand so close to me...

It's weird how music takes such an effect on our daily lives. You can associate a certain song with a certain time. These lyrics make a lot of sense to me. It's often how I feel about someone; being near them makes me want to shudder with desire. The line "temptation, frustration" really desribes it all. Even though this song is about a teacher and a student, the thoughts and feelings are the same. Sting is a genius.

RANT!

How can they expect me to change so much in only a bit more than a week? I've tried, honestly I have. I've stopped doing everything they told me to, I've been forbidden the use of my car, I don't party anymore, I've been concentrating on school. I can't do anymore than I'm already doing! Why do parents always expect instant results from something tht takes almost a month to take full effect? I can't be clean for a drug test in less than a month, I can't be expected to take insults silently and not voice my opinions when they give my younger brother the kind of privileges that I could only dream about. I guess you could say most of this stems from the jelousy of my favored little brother. I know my sister felt the same way about him too, but it didn't effect her as much as it does me, simply because of their age difference. Look at it this way: My sister unwillingly gave us rides to school, but she did anyway, with lots of complaining. She couls have given me rides to school and come picked me up when I was without a car for my first year of high school. but she didn't. I had to ride the bus, and then the late bus during soccer season. And now my senior year is just short of ruined because of my dabilitating jelousy for my brother. I am forced give him rides to and from school, I can't give anyone a ride without him reporting to my mom because he has just as much animosity towards me, and I can't live my life anymore, all because of him. Now, this may sound like it all comes from my side, and that he didn't ever do a thing to deserve this treatment from me, but even if it does, I don't give a shit. I've heard my whole life, be nice to your brother, don't be mean, don't talk to him like that, nothing but don't don't don't! Not once, ever, did my parents stop to think about how their two daughters were being ignored. All of it was always focused on him. Not once, ever, did my dad stop to think about how favoring my brother with his attention would create this monster that he blames me for becoming. Not once, ever, did my mom stop to think that allowing her son to run wild was the same as allowing me to run wild. I was the one who was always in the wrong, I never did anything right.

My Happy Place

Written August 23, 2006 in class.

Added 9/6/06.

Added 9/11/06.

Added 9/12/06.

ONE DAY
My life goes on. I live. Mother and Father fight. He yells and she just sits there, her eyes spitting sparks almost real enough to burn the hardwood floor, and yet refusing to look up or make any sound for fear of getting hit. We're all like that too; me, Abby, and James. Father shouts, we look down and stay quiet. It's no wonder we find Mother alone in thier bedroom, lying there, her unfoucused eyes glazed over, a weird slackness to her features. Tightly wound around her upper-arm is a bright pink bandana. We know better than to bother her now; this is her only escape from her abusive marriage. Abby follows suit with her own escape of razor blades, glass straws, and little bags of hellish snow-white powder. James leaves to find solace in the bed of his girlfriend. I myself lock the door to my room and induldge in rainbow-colored pils with comical names.

ANOTHER DAY
Mother got taken to the hospital this morning. Father hasn't been home since last night. Abby found her at 3 in the morning collasped on the floor, not breathing. I called 911. Everyone is gone. I went into my parents room and frowned as I walked through the door at the mess and the smell. Clothing strewn all over, a sharp odor that could have been rubbing alcohol, the tools of Mother's heroin bliss, and the telltale scent of burned marijuana. I shoved her incriminating items into her matching bright pink sack and pulled out the secret dresser drawer. I noticed with disgust Father's personal stash: a collection of whitish-yellow chunks and a small glass pipe. My eyes blurry with unsheld tears, I got off my knees, ran to the bathroom and flushed it all down the drain. Father already had enough poison in his blood without this. I retreated to my room again to search for something, anything, to distract my mind from this living Hell. I found something sufficient: orange BiC lighter, red-and-blue swirled glass piece, and sticky buds, all locked safely in my box under the bed. I huddled crouched in the corner of my dark room, searching in vain for comfort in this evil place through my artificial happiness. Jumbled thoughts rushed through my head...what am I going to do?...is Mother safe?...how will I survive?...
Moans of anguish escaped from my traitorous lips, along with tears streaming down my cheeks to make little round dots of wetness on my jeans. My hands trembled too much to control the lighter, so I gave up my quest for that artificial calm.

SOME OTHER DAY
Father hasn't been heard from in 4 days. Mother is still in the hospital, but getting better. The doctors give her medication to keep her from her cravings. Abby has a job and can foot the bills until we know what's going to happen. James shows up every now and then with red eyes and reeking of liquor and in a bad mood, uncaring as to what will happen to us. He got even angrier when he saw my dialated pupils and smelled the stale smoke clinging to my hair. I'm past caring what he thinks, the stupid hypocrite, coming home and telling me I can't do what he's been doing since the age of 13. Other than that, I'm the only one home. None of us has been going to school; I think even Abby dropped out of her college classes to work full time.

NEXT DAY
The police showed up at the front door this morning. I was alone in the house. I thought one of the neighbors had called them after hearing the comotion for a week. They questioned me a the door about my father's whereabouts, and when I told them he had left and hadn't been seen again, their frowning faces told me everything.
"I'm sorry," one of them said, "Your father was found late last night on 5th St. bridge. He was hit by a car. I appears to have been suicide."
I turned away from them, and walked away from the open front door. I had no tears to shed for such a monster who was better off dead.I think the officers closed the door and left to come back later. I retreated to my room, that dimly lit box where I suffered. The tears the eventually came were not for him, but for the fear of what was going to happen to the rest of my family. Abby is the only one to support us. Mother is likely to kick James out of the house because he does nothing to help and only causes trouble.
She won't let me drop out of school; I'm only a junior. She's said in the past that I need to get a full education and graduate, no matter the things that go on at home. I know she's right, but school is tourture. I don't even talk to anybody. I go, I learn, I suffer. Not even the seductive curve of my face can make the guys look. I'm invisible to them. My tight jeans, small shirts, painstakingly styled hair, carefully applied make-up, it's all wasted on them. I look at them through my green-blue eyes, and they look through me, not at me. Nobody ever sees me.

SOME OTHER DAY
Mother's come home at last. The police visited her in the hospital and told her the news. She was sad, but not regretful. She told them it was for the best. They asked her why she hadn't reported the abuse, and she told them that Father had threatened to take us away from her. He had the leverage in court, he yelled at her when she was brave enough to cross him. He told her that he would take us away and she would never see us again. She believed him. There were no charges to be brought against any of us for his death, since we all had alabis and he'd left a suicide note, saying that he couldn't bear the burden of a family any longer. No appology, no regrets about his treatment of us, only ever thinking of himself and his selfishness. I hate him, and I always will. We're all better off without him.
I went back to my parents' room again, got on my knees, and pulled out the secret drawer, only to find that it was empty. I went to find Mother to ask her where everything was; her only response was a smile. She had thrown everything away. A good start, I would say, to a new chapter in our lives as a broken but recovering family. A very good start.

I hate his name, Jonathan. Hearing it makes me want to spit in his face and watch his eyes take in mine, smoldering with flames of utter disgust. The fact that I am still physically attracted to him makes me want to cry, for nothing, nothing, could ever redeem him. He doesn't care at all; I don't even think he knows of my rage at him. One day, he'll walk by me at the wrong moment, and he'll be sorry that he ever fucked up. He'll be sorry that he made me cry, sorry that he made me laugh, sorry that he made me into the kind of person I am now. I can never again trust any guy without some suspicion, all because of him, and how he threw my trust against the wall regardless of the consequences. I hate him and love him at the same time, which in the end makes my hate stronger.